by J. D. Robb
“It’s a good cause—her son is dyslexic.”
“Sure it is, but don’t you think her methods are a little . . . unusual? . . . if not just wacky? What about a car wash or . . . or a lemonade stand? Raffles are always good.”
“She was making a point.” Molly replaced a pretty blue sheath on the stand. “It was symbolic: The jumbled letters in Pig Latin and the jumble of letters a dyslexic kid sees. Clever, really—just disastrously unmarketable.”
“Mmm. You think?”
Wandering off topic briefly, Elise pondered lip-smacking new shoes for her scrumptious new dress versus a pair of old, bland, stale pumps from last year and had barely arrived at the most obvious course of action when something occurred to her . . .
“Liz posted the party invitation on Facebook, didn’t she?”
Molly cringed, but didn’t look up. “To save money on party invitations that could then go toward an open bar.”
“And two hundred people accepted.”
“Only one hundred ninety-two . . .”
“That’s one hundred ninety-two friends, acquaintances and virtual strangers?”
“Within driving distance, yes.” Then she had to admit it. “That’s why she needed the bigger venue . . . and a cash bar.”
“That woman is industrial-strength weird.”
The wavy image dissipated, and Elise felt suddenly alone again without Molly. When she turned back to the president, he looked . . . expectant.
“What? You don’t think she’s as strange as a cow jumping over the moon?”
“Jumping to conclusions makes more sense to you?”
“What?”
Hands on her shoulders, Mr. Lincoln directed her attention back to the murky passage—it pictured Molly and Liz having lunch at Ferdinand’s, her favorite restaurant.
“Hey! I found Ferdinand’s. I was the one who told Molly about it. We go there all the time. It’s our place. What’s she doing there with Liz?”
Shocked, she pressed her fingers to her lips. Did she say that? Out loud? The acerbic tone of her voice jarred her. The words were petty and spiteful. And while she did, on occasion—like now—think and feel exactly that way, not saying so kept it a secret. It allowed her to pretend she was above such socially unacceptable emotions as dejection, jealousy and resentment.
Moreover, the silence protected her from the disapproval of others—those who appeared to have the enviable ability of making the best out of everything; who never had a negative point of view or reaction . . . or at the very least had the talent of giving that impression.
No, prudent people didn’t leave their feelings hanging out; didn’t leave themselves vulnerable. She sighed, resigned to keeping her most unbecoming thoughts and emotions to herself.
“You don’t, you know.” The president spoke softly at her ear.
She tipped her head his way, still watching Molly and the interloper. “I don’t what?”
“Keep your thoughts and emotions to yourself.”
“Yes, I do.” Elise frowned. Her low Grumpy voice felt scratchy . . . and she hated him messing around in her mind. “’Course, I do—the not-so-nice ones, I do. I don’t scream at the little kids running wild at the grocery store—or club their mothers for blocking the aisle with their carts.”
The smile on his lips was soft; the perception in his eyes was hard to take.
“Okay, so . . . so I’m still steamed that Nick Basserman got promoted over me. Especially after I mustered the courage, and the pride, to go in and plead my case to that old pinhead Winston. Three years it’s been. I’m still crushed. I’ve had to act like a good sport, a team player, all along knowing I’m more qualified. Crushed. But I don’t talk about it. I keep it to myself. It still hurts, but I haven’t let anyone see none of that.”
“You do not talk about it, but that does not mean your disappointment goes unspoken. You are less enthusiastic about your work and withdrawn among your coworkers; you smile less and your posture has gone lax with disinterest. The way you are feeling is very much hanging out, as you say.”
She scowled, considering. “Well, what about the time my mother completely forgot my twenty-fourth birthday—the year she went back to Italy to visit my grandparents? My own mother. No card, no call, no T-shirt, nothing. I said nothing, and I didn’t let her see how much it hurt me.”
Abe nodded. “Your mother was remorseful—you saw it in her eyes. But you played indifference, you cut her off short and you did not give her a chance to apologize. Do you know why?”
If she didn’t at the time, she did now. To punish, to teach her mother a lesson, to have stowage to barter with, tit for tat, for any future transgression of her own. Her heart tipped. That wasn’t the way she was raised, it wasn’t the example her mother set for her. Everyone deserved a second chance—isn’t that what she’d said? Didn’t they also deserve the opportunity to ask forgiveness?
“And with no apology to sooth your wound it remains sore and unable to mend,” he said.
Elise shuffled her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, searching for a good excuse or a reasonable explanation. A chronically overdrawn, cynical, judgmental hypocrite was not what she’d set out to become.
“Look,” he said, reclaiming her attention; his slim-fingered hands still resting on her shoulders. “Their food has arrived.”
“Oh! Good choice!” Elise smacked her lips. “Ferdinand’s Crab Louie never gets old.”
“Thank you for this, Molly,” said Liz Gurney, picking up her fork and knife to cut her salad into manageable pieces. A chink in her voice suggested her emotions were raw and near the surface. “I need . . . You’re a good friend.”
“Nonsense. We mothers need to stick together. We may not have all the right answers, but we do have all the same questions, I think. It helps to know we’re not alone.” She sipped on a sweet tea, still watching her beleaguered friend. “You know, if kids were cake mixes we’d have all the instructions on the back of their boxes with baking tips and low-fat alternatives. But they aren’t, so we don’t. All we can do is our best and hope it’s enough.”
Liz shook her head slowly and left the utensils resting on her plate. “My best is suffocating him. I know it. I see it. And I can’t seem to stop it.
“I look at Cody and I see him struggling to carry a heavy burden that I’ve forced on him—without thinking; without intending to. I’ve been too overprotective, too involved in every second, every aspect of his life . . . holding him too tight, fearful of losing him, too.”
“But that’s perfectly understandable, Liz, losing Lucas the way you did. Cody understands. And he’s not going to blame you for loving him too much.”
“No, of course not, but that’s not what I mean. I see him trying to be more, you know? More than what he is already, which is more than enough. Way more. I see him trying to fill the empty space Lucas left. And I’ve seen the fear in his eyes that he might not be enough.”
Her voice finally cracked, and a tear spilled onto her cheek. “The ‘Jolly Old Saint Nicholas’ recording?—that’s when I started to notice it. Cody was so patient and supportive the whole time Lucas was sick. He’s such a great kid.
“But then after . . . we decided we needed to get away; to do something fun, just the three of us. We took him to Disney World. It was a trip we’d always meant to take—you know, before—but then there was no time and . . .
“I should have realized the first time he said it . . .” She tapped on her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “I should have seen it then. I should have seen it coming. All those stupid books I read on dealing with the death of a child . . . I didn’t see it.” She looked away, and then back again. “We were leery at first, thinking the trip might remind him of Lucas too much. You know, more painful than pleasant for him, for all of us. Finally, Cody just blurted out that the trip was something Lucas wou
ld have liked. He said Lucas, not him. It didn’t click.”
“But what twelve-year-old boy wouldn’t want to go to Disney World?” Then, recognizing that there might be a few exceptions, Molly added, “And even if he didn’t, how were you supposed to know?”
“Because it got worse.” She took a draw from her water glass. “He kept pushing himself. Rides that would have scared him to death normally, he rode because ‘Lucas would want me to.’ I look back now, I see his face and he was scared to death. Terrified. But then he’d go find another—a ride Lucas would have ridden over and over—and he’d ride that one. He’d get off pale, trembling and forcing himself to laugh. And all I saw was what I wanted to see.”
“What you needed to see, too, I think. You were all hurting.”
Liz’s nod was slow and tired. “I think the whole trip was like a punishment for him. You know, that survivor’s guilt they talk about?” Her chin quivered. “I can’t bear to think that he, even once, wished he’d been the one to die instead of Lucas. The books say it’s common, but I can’t . . . I hope it isn’t true.”
“But what about his therapy? I thought you were all in therapy.”
“He is now, but that’s only been recently. In the beginning, we were all going to support groups. We went to the parents’ group, of course, but there was a special one for siblings that Cody went to. He always said he liked it, that he was learning a lot, that he thought it helped—he said everything he thought I wanted to hear. Then last fall he turned out for middle school football. We couldn’t believe it; he’d never shown any interest in it before. Lucas was the athlete, and school was easy for him. Cody struggled with his dyslexia to be a good student. He was the laid-back one, the daydreamer who loved to draw the most amazing pictures—his attention to detail is startling . . .” She hesitated, then sighed. “Last year he ran cross-country. It seemed like the perfect sport for him—running alone with just his thoughts, competing against his own best times. He loved it. Football, though, that should have been another red flag.”
“He didn’t like it.”
Liz shrugged her bewilderment. “He never said he didn’t. He went to practice. He sat on the bench during most of the games, and when they did play him, he spent most of his time facedown on the ground. He’d come home at night scraped and bruised and forcing an enthusiasm he clearly didn’t have. His father tried to help him, give him a few tips, but he had no aptitude for it. And again, I missed it. I missed seeing that he was trying to be both himself and Lucas for us. I only saw him failing at things that had been so easy for Lucas, without a clue as to why he’d bothered to try them in the first place.”
Molly reached across the table to cover her friend’s hand with hers.
“The recording.” Liz shook her head. “The dyslexia is so frustrating for him. The tutor has helped, but he still needs some special ed at school. Kids tease him. I wanted to do something just for him. Something important. I wanted to show him that I love him; that I love everything about him—his talents and his limitations—and I wanted to do it in a big way. I wanted . . .” Her voice trailed away in defeat. “Well, let’s just say Elise wasn’t the only person who walked by looking like I was trying to sell vials of Ebola.”
“Oh no, I’m sure—”
“Oh yes. I could see it all over her face. So could Cody.”
From the wings, a horrified gasp escaped Elise, and she closed her eyes in deep and sincere regret.
Liz went on. “But to be fair, he was embarrassed to begin with. He said it was a bad idea. He said that he didn’t want me to go to so much trouble. He said, in every polite way possible, that he didn’t want me to do it. But did I listen? Did I hear him?
“The reactions I got at the mall were only the last straw for him. He finally broke down and told us everything. How he felt, what he was trying to do for us . . . why.” Her soft chuckle was ironic. “Maybe I should thank Elise after all.”
“Listen. I love my sister-in-law to death, I really do. But she can be very cynical sometimes. I was there that day. I knew what you were doing . . . Not that you’d made the recording, but I knew it was for Cody. I didn’t think to mention it to her, but if I had I know she . . . well, she probably wouldn’t have bought a recording, I’ll be honest with you, but I do know she’d have donated money. She has a soft heart, but she’s skeptical, and so intolerant of things she doesn’t understand.”
This time Liz’s chuckle was amused. “Wait until she hears that I accidentally spam-invited everyone I’ve friended on Facebook to Tom’s birthday party.”
CHAPTER FOUR
As the picture cleared, the growling and grumbling noise came again. The sound seemed to roil around inside her like leaves in a tea cup, but Elise barely noticed. She sighed and lowered her gaze to the floor.
She was intolerant. She knew it. Mockery was another defect she’d allowed to take up residence in her life.
She knew, too, that she could wither a stone with a single stare when called for. She used to practice in the mirror to look not frightened, not helpless, less caring—for protection, to defend herself. The downside was that the same expression could come across as fearsome, aggressive or unfeeling.
She never meant to hurt anyone, but she knew she could. She’d seen furtive glances before—fleeting looks that were about her, but not meant for her to see. They hurt. Terribly. Then they made her angry.
“I’m sorry about the boy—and his brother. I didn’t know,” she said, her voice thick in her throat. “I never meant to hurt him.”
“Not meaning to hit a dog with your automobile doesn’t make its pain any less, doesn’t make it less dead.” The words slapped, burned—so much she didn’t detect the odd pitch to his new voice.
She bowed her head in disgrace . . . and would have proceeded on to feel like a miserable wretch had she not at that moment noticed she was now wearing bright yellow socks and a matching shirt—with a black zigzag pattern at the hem.
“Good grief,” she said, though an angst-filled Charlie Brown felt like a good fit just then. She turned quickly to see that her favorite president was now Dorothy Gale’s Tin Woodman. She moaned. “Great. You don’t need to tell me I have no heart—I am well aware.”
“Don’t be dense. Of course you have a heart. Everyone has a heart. Even I have a heart.”
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Neither did I,” he said. He turned slowly and started walking down another aisle . . . of fruit and vegetable costumes.
“No. I meant . . .” She stopped, once again distracted. “I can never remember: Is a peanut a fruit or a vegetable?”
His clanking steps stopped and he turned. “In botanical terms, since the seeds are contained within a pod, it is considered a legume, which is a fruit. In culinary terms, since the pods develop underground, it is considered to be a plant cultivated for an edible part, therefore a vegetable. The debate of fruit versus vegetable is an old one with various outcomes.” He went on in a brainy fashion, “For instance, in eighteen ninety-three, the United States Supreme Court ruled unanimously that an imported tomato should be taxed as a vegetable, rather than a fruit, which was taxed at a lower rate. The court agreed that a tomato is technically a botanical fruit, but a vegetable in its function—it’s served in salads, soups and main courses, where fruits are eaten in hand or in a dessert. It’s complicated.”
Elise frowned at him, considering. “It’s been a while, but . . . were you smart in the movie?”
“I’m hollow, not shallow.” He turned away—his steps seemed louder than before. “And the movie is based on Dorothy’s story, not mine. My story starts well in advance of her finding me the woods.”
“Really?” she asked, staying close on his heels as he turned into sporting uniforms. This was a story she wanted to hear.
“Yes. I had problems of my own with the Wicked Witch of the East long before
Dorothy’s house landed on her.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You don’t remember? Gamma read you all the Oz books when you were young.” Elise squinted, trying to recall—Gamma read her lots of stories. “And everyone knows the books are always better—and more informative—than the movies based on them.” True; she nodded. He sighed, resigned. “Anyway, I did once have brains and a heart as well. I was as human as you are . . . except that I was a character in a book.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” He turned around to face her. “My name was Nick Chopper then, and I had a sweetheart. She was a beautiful Munchkin maiden named Nimmie Amee, and I loved her very much.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. We were going to marry, but the witch decided Nimmie was to remain a housemaid. She enchanted my ax, and it began chopping off my limbs, one at a time. One by one, I got the tinsmith to replace each extremity as best he could, but in restoring my head and chest, he forgot to add a brain and a heart.”
“Uh-huh.” This part she knew.
“Now, I admit that for a time I was afraid I could no longer love my lovely Nimmie Amee without a heart. I was brokenhearted about it. And with no heart to guide me, to keep me from doing wrong, I knew I needed to be extra careful not to be cruel or unkind to anything. So in the end, well, it turned out I was a better man; a more caring man without a beating heart than I was when I had one.” He grinned. “You might say I had more heart when I didn’t have any.”
This was something Elise had never considered, so she did it now.
“You know,” he went on. “It isn’t the brain in your head or the heart in your chest that you make choices with. They aren’t what you feel and care and empathize with. You know it’s more than muscles and impulses. It’s something you control. It’s you choosing who to be; you deciding how to live your life.”